dots

by Angie M. Brashears

  Em meets me in front of the meeting room door and takes my hand, mindful of the bandage on my arm. “Ready,” she says with fake cheer and a soft squeeze of my hand, careful of my screaming joints. My oncologist, Twitch—I can’t say his real name. It has too many consonants and I just mess it up every time—has this weird eye thing he does when he gives bad news. Which is all the time. He’s sitting behind the desk, talking to my…shit.

  This is not good.

  Dr. Fitzmann, the guy who started it all, my family doctor, is leaning on the bookshelves behind my cancer doctor.

  One look as we enter, and I know it’s bad. “How long do I have?” I ask. Em bursts into tears beside me.

  I clench her hand as my world turns. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “How long?” I repeat, like I’m asking the time.

  As I sit, not hearing the explanations, just watching Twitch’s lips move and his eye spasm till it looks like it’s going to jump out of its socket. I keep peering at my family doctor, feeling slightly betrayed. He still hasn’t answered my question. Trying to avoid my eyes, but I see his just fine. And they’re filled with tears.

  I don’t want to ask again. I hold a hand up to halt Twitch. I don’t need all the gory details. It’s fucking cancer—who cares where it spread to, it’s here to stay.

  I look to Dr. Fitzmann, the doctor with the never-empty lollipop jar, who knew me before I even knew myself. Maybe that will count for something.

  “Is it time?” I whisper.

  He nods and wipes his eyes.

  Em refuses to leave, yet will not stop crying. But I hear it. Over her sobs and the wind tunnel whizzing through my ears.

  Two months.

  ……

  Crying in Em’s arms in the backseat of her Audi for I don’t know how long.

  Her phone keeps ringing.

  I make her answer it.

  I walk back into the building to wash my face and splash water on myself till I find a smile that fits. Wave to Courtney, my puppy-eyed nurse. She knows all too well what tears in the bathroom mean. My death clock has begun.

  “It was nice knowing you, Courtney!” I yell once I’m in the hallway. I can’t look into her eyes, which are heavy with truth. I’ll probably never see her again.

  Em, in the driver’s seat now, watches with a cry face as I approach.

  But I give her a mom voice and say don’t. “Don’t start, Em. You’ll get me started, and I’ve gotta face my brother. We’re done talking about this, too.”

  She nods. “I’m shaking. I need some food in me. You want anything?” She pulls into my favorite place in the world, In N Out. Of course.

  Her feeble attempt to get me to eat does not go unnoticed. “You know I can’t, Em.” Which is what I said the other three times. “Dude, I just had chemo…”

  “Whatever.”

  She orders into the squawk box.

  “Em, I’m serious,” I say and turn toward the opposite window, she’s really pissing me off. I already said…

  She gets the “thank you, pull forward,” and I can’t help it. “Add a chocolate shake!” I yell.

  We park in front of my parents’ as I eat half of Em’s fries. It’s the smell, the only one that doesn’t make me gag. I still hope my nurse gave me the really strong nausea medication.

  She smirks as I drink my shake.

  “What? It doesn’t taste half bad coming back up.”

  “So gross,” she laughs and wipes her mouth before she gets serious. “So, it’s tonight then?”

  I put my half-finished shake in the drink console. I don’t want to push it. “Yes, he’s home.”

  She nods. “I’ll make up some excuse to call him.”

  I pat her arm and smile. “Thanks, Em. You’re a good friend.”

  She laughs. “Don’t pin a gold star on me yet. I just want to fuck your raunchy brother. I’m not that good of a friend,” she laughs. “I’ll be his shoulder to cry on.”

  I laugh out loud, squeezing her to me. “And that right there is why you’re my chemo buddy.”

  “Forever,” she says as she waves over my shoulder at the half-naked marine flexing on my parent’s porch.

  “He looks good…bigger,” I say.

  Like a little vixen, she says, “I wonder if he’s bigger everywhere.”

  I just roll my eyes.

  Em kisses me and hugs me to her. “Good luck.”

  I start to get out and then, because I know it’s on her mind, I promise. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell Lola…soon.”

  As I head up the path, I get the feeling. That awful dread of baring your soul. And incredibly, I can already anticipate the lightness I’ll feel after dropping this heavy burden. It’s like the gag you get when you take cough syrup, but you do it because of the restful night’s sleep that’s promised.

  After tonight, there will be no more pretending. Once the family’s brought in, it’s official. Mom will not let me lie to myself any longer.

  I walk up to the porch, smirking. “You can stop sucking it in now. She’s gone.” I pat his hard stomach.

  He blows out a breath, right in my face, but his stomach doesn’t move.

  “Did she mention me?” he asks as he takes the inside stairs two at a time.

  “No, why?”

  Because she’s so thoughtful in my wet dreams, I was hoping for just one thought in real life. He hugs a pillow, from his bed and bellows. “Oh, Emmalicious!”

  “You’re ridiculous. She’s a lawyer. What would she want with some jarhead?”

  “Orgasms!” he shouts out the window.

  “Please,” I say and can’t help but notice the banner across the bottom of the screen of the game he’s playing. Once he’s seated in his favorite gaming chair with his official Xbox headphones on, his wireless controller in hand, I take that opportunity to ask about the banner.

  “Yeah, it’s a really cool site, dude. You can request whatever you want. Your dick’s desire.” He laughs, but I can’t join in. My mind keeps wandering to tonight’s festivities—dinner and a horror show. “Oh, and if you have cancer…your desire is free.” He smirks and shrugs at me.

  I snap my attention back to him. What? Why’s the idiot talking about cancer? My head jerks up, but he’s all business. Eyes forward on the screen.

  So I prod him, a little. “In what Utopia are heart’s desires ever free? I’m sure they’ve tapped into the death benefits of these sick people. This guy has to making money off of cancer somehow. Why else would everyone be against him? Oh, and don’t call me dude…you’ll give me a complex. I’m your baby sister, after all.”

  He smirks and shoots something on the screen. “No, seriously, bro. His mom had cancer. He started it for her.”

  I glare at him, challenging his idiocy. “Again, I’m your sister—enunciation for the deaf— not your bro, ’kay?” I beam a toothy grin in his direction before flipping him off on the way out.

  “That fact has never been proven,” he mumbles into his headpiece. But I hear it.

  I poke my head back in, and my feet follow. I twirl a curl, pretending to think. “Now that you mention it…no one else in this family is a ginger snap…I wonder…” I stick my tongue out at the back of his head. He doesn’t need to see it. He’ll feel it. And then I blow the wettest raspberry I can, hoping he gets sprayed. “And speaking of our wayward mother, when is she coming home? And will she be bringing food for the prodigal son’s homecoming dinner?” I flutter my eyelashes at him, but he’s still eyes front.

  Without looking away from the computer game, he says, “Don’t you have an apartment to clean? Jeez, as much as you’re over here, I’d think you were dying or something. And stop looking over my shoulder.” I avoid a black eye from the controller he’s waving around and manage to sneak a quick peek at the screen before heading out to the fridge. Same black op military game he always plays. “Don’t you get enough of that stuff at your job, GI Joe?”

  “He’s army…but thanks for the compliment.”
>
  I head down the stairs. The game didn’t interest me. The ad on the bottom did.

  F#CK IT LIST

  What’s on your F#ck It List? Play a little ‘never have I ever’ with yourself, and bring the answer to us. You won’t be playing with yourself for long.

  Adults Only, Entertainment Purposes Only. Disclaimer, disclaimer.

  Very similar to the post on the bulletin board.

  F#ck Cancer

  Trade in your boring bucket list for a swankier F#ck It List. Just say F#ck It and ask.

  But no disclaimer, nothing official. Just written in black marker on a white index card. Extremely unofficial, if you ask me. Shady.

  I shout up the stairs. “Hey, Ronny! How do you know about the free cancer thingy?” Maybe Courtney was wrong and he heard about it on the news. Maybe they are releasing the news that he not only peddles fantasies and finds time to be the devil, but also helps cancer patients in his spare time. I listen at the stairs for what feels like a full minute for an answer, which isn’t coming. That’s it. I ‘yoo-hoo’ myself dizzy till he does.

  He appears on the landing in home attire. White boxers and dog tags. “Enough already. You’re worse than a drill sergeant.” He grabs the bannisters in both hands, flings his legs out in a perfect arc, missing all the stairs, and comes to a perfect 10.0 landing right in front of me. Show-off!

  “Cause the owner’s a buddy of mine. Mason Dixon. We go way back. And I watch TV.”

  I roll my eyes, throw my head back, and belt out. “What does one have to do with the other?”

  “I’ll tell you, little sis.” He pulls me into a hug. Ugh. “If you calm the fuck down,” he whispers in my ear, then flicks it hard with his finger. Ow! “Put your listening ears on.”

  I punch my way out of his hug. His abs don’t even move. In fact, he talks right through the pummeling.

  “I know because I listen. He’s got a big media interview airing soon. There’ve been ads on all week. Mason pissed off the wrong people, it seems, trying to get a tax break for boobs! I’ve been watching clips all week. In one of them, he actually walks off the stage! I can’t wait to watch it. The first part airs tonight.”

  Sounds like my kind of squirrely. “He really walks out on his own interview?”

  “Yep, it’s two nights of him defending the crap out of his website. An adult website. A bunch of protestors got together and are trying to block it. Said it’s virtual prostitution or some shit like that. I say, that’s the best kind.”

  “Stop wriggling your eyebrows; you look like you’re having a seizure. Fun fact: don’t do that ever in front of a woman you’re not related to. That is, if you’d like to get laid at some point in your future.” With that bit of sisterly advice, I do an about-face and head to the kitchen. With him snapping at my heels.

  He bumps me out of the way and takes the lead. “Oh, I’ve been laid, little sister. Flat out.”

  In my sweetest voice, meant for singing prayer hymns, I ask, “Was a girl involved? Or just your baseball glove?”

  I can’t help myself. It’s one of the many perks of my membership in the little sister club. Just because we’re older doesn’t mean my card’s expired.

  He chuckles. “If the paint-by-numbers doesn’t work out for ya, you’d make a helluva Marine with that mouth.”

  I blow him a kiss and peer into the fridge for the third time since I got here. Nothing’s moved, fruit and yogurt still accounted for. “Why is Mom always dieting? Is she leaving Dad or something? Jeez, there’s never anything good in here.” I slam the fridge door and try the freezer.

  “Right? I asked her to pick me up a box of Twinkies and got a thirty-minute lecture on the evils of Hostess.”

  “Eureka.” I tear into the box of ice cream like our freezer’s broke.

  I offer him the box. “Have you tried out his website?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Is that a no to the ice cream, or no you’ve never been on it?”

  Grinning, he says, “Just no. We’re not having the birds-and-bee’s conversation today.”

  “Whatever. I could probably teach you a thing or two...”

  “From who? Paul? C’mon now.”

  “Paul’s spicy.” I lick the orange ice-cream drips. “Where do you know this Dixon guy from?”

  “What do you mean, where do I know him from?”

  “I’m drawing a blank.”

  “You have to remember him. I went to college with the guy. We graduated together... Hey, he was even here when Mom threw my sendoff. Right before I got deployed. C’mon, Chloe, it’s only been a year and change. You have to remember him…you said hi to him!” Another thought blows through his airhead. I watch his eyes light up as it passes. “You spilled guacamole on his white pants!” He bends over and belly laughs.

  But all I’ve got is a deer-in-the-headlights look. “I did?”

  “Yes, how many guys have you spilled on…?” Then he remembers it’s me. “Stupid question.” I can tell he’s exasperated with my shoddy memory. “Anyway, he’s the one they did the commencement video about. The valedictorian that missed graduation because his mom died. Ring any bells?” he says before bending down and tearing a bite right out of the middle of my 50/50 bar. I’m going to miss this. Hope there’s a brother surrogate up in Heaven.

  “Hey!” I yell, not because I wanted it, but on principle. “Hey, get your own!” I think back to his graduation. All those stairs in the stadium. My hip burned for a week after that. I thought it was a pulled muscle. I wore a peach dress and thought I was fine. Just a little sore. What if I had gone that day? Could they have found it in time?

  Does it matter now?

  To Ronny I say, “Not ringing a bell. The only thing that is clear as day is you riding your skateboard across the stage. Why’d you do that?” I bump him with my elbow.

  “I go where the wave takes me, man,” he says in his best stoner voice. He bumps back, and I almost lose the orange slush—he ate the good part—as it slides down the wooden stick. I have to turn my head to catch it. Through a mouthful of Popsicle, I ask, “What video? Did he die or something?” The minute it leaves my lips, I know it was a stupid question to ask.

  My brother, who never misses a chance, smirks, “Yeah, and his ghost is back from the dead granting bucket list wishes, Stooge.”

  “Touché.” I know when he’s got me. “No seriously, what was the video about?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. I turn to him and see him holding an ice cream…with his teeth. “Doesn’t that hurt your teeth?” I grimace. I can’t stand it.

  He looks at me like I’m high, which I wish I was. “No, I don’t have little baby girl teeth. I’ve got the teeth of a Marine.”

  I hold my nose. “And you smell like one, too.”

  He takes the Popsicle out of his mouth long enough to say, “Whiskey.” Then he shoves it back in.

  I glare at him, with a well? face until he explains himself. He shakes his head, swallows the rest of his treat in one bite, and says, “His parents own the Dixon Line Distillery. That huge building on the hill that makes whiskey?”

  He looks at me like I’m slow, so I cross my eyes and nod. “Go on.”

  He’s not impressed. “Big donors to the college. Put the Olympic-sized pool in just so my boy Mason could play his water polo on campus and not have to schlep the two blocks to the community pool. That gave him plenty of time to be top of his class in everything. His mother, one of those big donors, died the day before graduation.”

  He grabs a yogurt and drinks it straight from the little cup, cocking his pinkie finger like he’s at high tea in the garden.

  “Some one—and no, I don’t know who, but probably Mason—sent the video and it got played during graduation. I thought it would at least have a picture of the absent Dixon prince, but it was all about his newly departed mother. Her life, charity work, then…” He thinks back.

  I don’t want to tell him about the Yoplait mustache he’s sporting an
d try not to stare at it. “Then it was weird. It turned into a commercial for their whiskey, featuring her. Talk about a placement plug. All I know is, that night everyone got drunk off their asses on Dixon Line Moonshine. There were cases of it, free for the taking, in both end zones.” He burps and grabs another cup from the fridge.

  “Hmm, I don’t remember any of this.” This is worrisome. With a cross between a backwards push-up and a scoot, I get my behind up on the counter. A definite no-no in the parents’ house. “Where the hell was I?”

  He knocks on my head hard. “Hello, is anybody in there?”

  I wave him away. “When’s your leave over?”

  “I ship out tomorrow night. Why?”

  “Because I’m gonna miss your block head, that’s why.” My attempt at ruffling his immovable buzz cut falls short. It turns into an awkward pat, the ends of his too-short hair pricking me. I give up and hop down from the counter and instantly regret it as a bolt of pain shoots out from my hip. Pain flares arch out, sizzling down my leg, before it dims, back down to the day-to-day throb.

  It’s always with me now.

  I turn away with no grace whatsoever, hoping he missed the wince. I rearrange my face, back to the dopey little sis, and check to see if he’s watching me. But he’s oblivious as usual, scratching spots that shouldn’t itch, standing in the open fridge, letting all the cold air out.

  When my hip first started acting up—I can’t even remember when, really—it was such a minor nuisance. There was no that’s the day date I can pinpoint. Gradually, it just started to hurt. It wasn’t this intense then, just a throb, maybe a twinge, and a bit leg crampy—but in my hip—more of a hindrance than pain. I know what pain is now.

  Back then, it was more of an ache, and only after heavy use. I’d sit sketching, cross-legged, my art supplies scattered around me, and work for hours. And my hip would hurt after.

  No biggie. I’d take a couple Motrin and forget about it. It wasn’t till it was already aching, when I got out of bed in the morning, that I thought, Hey, I must’ve really hurt myself. Pretty soon, I was waking up to Motrin and a muffin. I had my own little song and everything. “Hello, Motrin, my old friend.”